


waterlillies

by arabellagaleotti



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Dancing, Drinking, Gay, Gay Peter Parker, Horny Teenagers, House Party, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Making Out, New York City, Party, Peter Parker is a Mess, Sexuality Crisis, Subways, Underage Drinking, discovering sexuality, heat wave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25745686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabellagaleotti/pseuds/arabellagaleotti
Summary: Stranger steps closer to him, so close, too close, and Peter's hyperventilating, Peter's heart is in his throat, beating violently.“Wanna go upstairs?” he says, and there's a split second where Peter is processing those connotations, processing in general — he swears his brain is buffering. He tries to ignore his first response is yes yes yes please and that even thinking that comes with a bout of adrenaline, of a low feeling in his stomach, like the floor is dropping out from under him, like he’s on a rollercoaster.OR,Peter goes to a party at Flash's and meets someone. Maybe he's not so straight after all.
Relationships: Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds, Michelle Jones & Peter Parker, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Flash Thompson, Peter Parker/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 97
Collections: god tier spider-man fics





	waterlillies

It's summer in New York. It's so hot it stinks, so hot the tarmac boils in the street, so much so even the locals, who will defend New York until their dying days hate it. Peter, one of said locals,  _ definitely _ hates it.

Everything in Queens is hot and slow, like the air has been replaced with molasses. Even the people move in slow-mo. It’s infuriating. Peter feels like he can't do anything apart from taking cold showers and lying around. He knows how cats feel, he guesses. Well, cats don't really take cold showers, but the metaphor still applies.

The delightful image in his head is of a dark green pool, his only solace. He’d be sitting there, on the edge, feet in the water. The water would be studded with water lilies, with frogs croaking and dragonflies skidding over the water like ice skaters. He’d be alone, and it would be quiet enough to sleep, loud enough for the mind to wander, sounds like buzzing and tweeting and fucking twittering or whatever noises birds make. Peter doesn't really know, he was born in Queen's, for god's sakes.

He sighs and fishes for the dream again. They're out of ice blocks, so he can't even pretend to be back there.

His phone beeps. He rolls over and checks it. Anything to distract from the heat. Anything.

**_mj_ **

_ bitch ! _

He sighs. This is how MJ shows emotion.

**_Petey Pie_ **

_ I'm not the bitch. What? _

She replies quickly.

**_mj_ **

_ offended. _

**_Petey-Pie_ **

_ I know you're not. _

**_mj_ **

_ whatever _

_ (kinda agree thou)  _

**_Petey-Pie_ **

_ I’m fully aware. Why are you talking to me? _

**_mj_ **

_ numero uno we're friends, numero dos we’re friends. _

_ do u need numero tres _

_ also there's a party in manhattan tonight lmaooo _

**_Petey-Pie_ **

_ Manhattan? _

**_mj_ **

_ flash lives there. in like rich townhouse land _

**_Petey-Pie_ **

_ Ooooooohhhh _

_ I see _

**_mj_ **

_ wanna go? _

_ ned is btw _

**_Petey-Pie_ **

_ K _

_ What's the address? _

MJ just sends him a screenshot of Flash dming somebody with the info.

**_Petey_ **

_ I would like to know if we are invited? _

**_mj_ **

_ well no one isn't invited _

**_Petey-Pie_ **

_ I feel like you're reading into that too much _

**_mj_ **

_ see u there loser _

He laughs and turns off his phone.

"What are you laughing about, gremlin?" May asks, sticking her head through the door with a basket of laundry in her arms. She looks happy for once. She's still tired, you can tell, all those late nights and hospital shifts take their toll, but she looks refreshed.

"I'm going to a party tonight."

She crooks an eyebrow. "Are you just?"

He batts his eyelashes and pouts. "Can I, May?"

"Who’s party is it?"

"Flash’s.”

She wrinkles up her face. "That little prick?"

"Don't worry, we’re crashing it."

She laughs, a little. "That makes it better. Are Ned and MJ going too?"

"Yeah, and a bunch of people in my class."

“You can go, just remember your curfew. Don’t drink." He ignores the fact even if he did, it wouldn’t have an effect.

"Thanks, May."

"No problem, Pete." She leaves the room and Peter lays flat on his back, sighs. He can't wait for nightfall. It might cool down.

—

The subway is warm too, even at night it’s this strange, insulated warm, the warm you get from 6,500 trains going 30 miles an hour 24/7 combined with broken air conditioning and summer.

He likes the subway — it’s weird, he knows— it’s a good place to watch people, and to just vibe out. His anxiety used to be bad. I mean — it used to be bad in general. Still is. Back then, he was scared everyone was looking at him, that there were eyes on his every move, but then he realised something. New Yorkers are literally the most self-obsessed, chaotic, busy people on earth and they don’t give a fuck about some snotty little teenager in a train carriage. More than that, he started acting on it. It’s one thing to know it, another to act on it. He started bobbing his head to the music coming through his broken headphones, and taking a phone call without being embarrassed. When he steps into an empty carriage, he dances, just a little. Spins, usually. 

He started liking the subway more. He likes it late at night, when the carriages are mostly empty, and he likes it when it’s full. Everyone is just minding their business, coexisting. The people returning home from their jobs, the women applying lipstick and the ones who look like they wanna take it off, art students holding a $17 iced coffee who look like they’re either writing poetry or their suicide note. It's mostly-quiet because everyone’s on their phones or listening to music or writing, or a combination of all three.

He feels peaceful there, in the soup of humanity. He knows no-one will ever care about the 7'o'clock train to Brooklyn on the F line, and that's what makes it nice. Everyone knows that, and everyone's just co-existing anyway, not putting on any shows for future history, just being human.

It’s strange.

\--

Flashes house is one of those townhouses, brick and wood and like,  _ waay _ too much money. Peter knows he’s in the right place instantly. There’s teenagers drinking from paper cups — yay, no single-use plastics! -- outside, and music and light blaring from indoors.

He walks up the porch and around someone to open the door.

Ned and MJ see him almost instantly, and he's only given about 45 seconds of chanting what do I do? What do I do? What do I-- Inside his head until they come up to him.

“Peter!” Ned yells.

“Loser,” MJ imparts.

“You too,” Peter shoots back. She just shrugs.

It’s all just a little too much. A little too much noise. A little too many people. A little too much sound.

“Want a drink?” MJ says/yells, because it’s not just an option to yell anymore.

Ned nods, and so does Peter. Super metabolism. The only way for him to get drunk would be to chug like three gallons of vodka at once. He thinks about May, and he thinks about what the harm could be. 

MJ returns from some forbidden land, managing to carry three solo cups full of beer. Beer is gross, but Peter guesses there's not that much option.

MJ downs her drink and yells something about wanting to dance, and Peter’s never been one to let go like that but everyone here is drunk and everyone else here is dancing and really, it looks kinda fun. Peters wants to do that sometimes -- let go. He'd like to just escape. He feels so high definition all the time, with his mind constantly running like the filter in the back of an aquarium, whirring quietly. He’d like to turn that off. He’d like to be unclean, and he’d like to just melt without being so worried about staying frozen.

So when MJ and Ned make their way into what you could call a mosh pit, he decides fuck it, fuck it, you're at a party in Manhattan, Peter. You'll never be here again, in this moment, with this opportunity, and he wants to jump for once.

So he does jump, and lands in a thrashing sweaty mob of horny teenagers.

There's a guy there, Peter’s never seen him before, but he's probably one of Flash's buddies. Or a gate crasher, like him. He smiles. He's a gatecrasher.

He’s tall, with dark hair, and eyes, and generally pretty good looking. Not that Peter would notice, of course.

They dance for a while more, but it’s tiring, it's so tiring being happy.

Peter tries to tell MJ that he’s going, but she doesn't hear. He shrugs, figures they’ll find him.

He slipped out of the crowd, past all of the people, their faces all smushed, like melted doll heads, features blurred. They don't care. All they care about is this moment right now, and they might have worries tomorrow, or later tonight, but right now they’re just shells of people, NPCs, extras in a movie, dancing to fill in the gaps.

Peter smiles. How goddamn fantastic.

“What are you smiling about?” It's the stranger from before. Peter slows in his tracks. He thinks about dodging past him, or finding Ned and MJ again, but he's tired of being the anxious one, the one that can't dance. He's tired of being that Peter.

“These people are so free!” he yells, because he has too, and holy shit how has Flash not gotten a noise complaint yet? “They're just — just dancing. Don't care about anything else.”

He laughs, and looks around like he’s realizing it. “Yeah. They are.”

They look at each other for a moment, and Peter's eyes can't help but get caught in his mouth, cherry red just like his flushed cheeks. It’s hot in here, and he’s probably been drinking, and so has Peter, not that it really affects him. There's no reason for him to be here, there's no reason for Peter to be talking to him, but they are, and something hot kindles low in his belly.

Stranger steps closer to him, so close, too close, and Peter's hyperventilating, Peter's heart is in his throat, beating violently.

“Wanna go upstairs?” he says, and there's a split second where Peter is processing those connotations, processing in general — he swears his brain is buffering. He tries to ignore his first response is _yes yes yes please_ and that even thinking that comes with a bout of adrenaline, of a low feeling in his stomach, like the floor is dropping out from under him, like he’s on a rollercoaster.

Peter looks up at him, examines the details of his face he can see to his degree, his eyelashes, the pores on his face, the jut of his nose.

Peter takes another split second to consider everything, MJ, Ned, his curfew, the fact he’s being asked upstairs by a guy. And he doesn't care. Peters tired of caring. He cares about everything. He cares about May, and MJ and Ned and even Flash, sometimes. He cares about Tony. He cares about all the people he saves every day.

“Yes.”

The dude draws back, and he turns and walks to the stairwell in the corner, where empty cups are balanced on the railing. Peter follows.

They walk up the stairs, Peter feeling like he’s on his way to a bank heist, and onto a landing. Stranger opens the first door he sees, and it's a bedroom.

They walk inside, and Peter is floored for a moment by the realisation that it’s Flash's bedroom. He gasps, looking around. Pretty typical, made bed, desk file for schoolwork, closet, wait, Is that a — a Beyonce poster? On the wall? In Flash’s room?

“What?” Stranger asks.

“Beyonce,” he says, pointing.

Stranger cocks his head. “Yeah? Flash loves Beyonce.”

“He does?”

He giggles, and it’s a strange sound, Peter didn't imagine he’d laugh like that. “You didn’t know?”

Peter giggles again, and wanders around, looking at everything he can, “No idea.” It strikes Peter how much he doesn't know about everyone’s life. He doesn't even know everything about his own life.

“Weird,” the Stranger says.

“Yeah,'' Peter says again, and turns to ask where he knows Flash from when a Stranger is suddenly there, right in front of his mouth dangerously close.

“You okay?” Stranger whispers, and yet another open exit sign, yet another chance to escape, but Peter doesn't want to. He’s got his life for once, rather than being passed around. He's got his life wrangled in his hands and he’s holding it, grounding it, and he decides what to do.

“Will be,” Peter whispers, and leans up that extra inch. And he kisses him. Him, Peter Parker, kisses a boy.

Woah, the boy kisses back.

Soon Peter's pushed up against Flash's desk, what they're doing can hardly be called kissing. No, kissing is 1950’s decorum, a peck on the cheek. Kissing is chaste. Kissing is...not this.

Stranger makes this little sound in the back of his throat, and holy shit that turns him on immensely.

He jumps on top of the desk, pulls him closer. Is it hot in here? It feels hot in here.

Stranger’s hands are groping, reaching, pawing. Peter, distantly, realises he’s doing just about the same. His heart is being so fast it’s gonna burst. They separate, for a moment, and Peter needs way more air than he’s getting. His heart swells, and his lungs swell, and he has this strange phenomenon when he feels like he’s just growing and growing like mold, exploding and expanding like elephant toothpaste.

Strange pulls his shirt over his head, Peter admires the view. There this flighty feeling in his chest, ice, or crystal, or something else delicate and perfect. Peter's breathing hard, and looking at Stranger -- perfect, perfect Stranger with his fantastic jaw and nose and hair -- fuck, his hair, falling over his forehead like that, all toused and dark sticking up, making something in Peter's gut growl.

“You all good?” Stranger asks, eyebrow raised, the curve of a smile hidden between his lips.

“Yeah,” Peter says breathily.

Stranger kisses him again, and pulls the edge of his own shirt up. Peter takes the cue and shoulders out of it.

“Fuck,” Stranger says, and steps back. “Was not expecting that,” his eyes rake up and down Peter's body and he shivers under his gaze.

Peter laughs. “Yeah.”

The door opens, suddenly, just as a Stranger is coming back to him, hand reaching for his waist, mouth reaching for his. Peter instinctively turns his face away from the door, away from the bright light stabbing his retinas.

“Jesus —” Flash. That’s Flash’s voice. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Oh,” is all the Stranger says. “Flash,” he says again.

“This is his bedroom,” Peter says dumbly. God, he’s so dumb! So dumb!

“He doesn't know you're...?” the word hangs between them.

“No,” Peter says, and it’s strange, almost admitting it. “I'm..” a variety of responses lay there, stiff and silent on his tongue. Gay? Straight? Bi? Not telling people? In the closet? Worried?

He wants to swallow his whole head, tongue and eyes and all and just disappear.

Stranger picks up his shirt, pulling it on as he walk towards the door

Unsure what to do, Peter gets off Flash's desk and pulls on his shirt. He’s only freaking out a little. Only a little

Okay, that's a lie.

He’s full-on spiralling.

He hears muffled conversation, Flash and Stranger.

“Sorry, Flash,” Stranger apologises, muffled. Peter can see their shadows moving from under the door.

“Really dude?” Flash says, and he sounds mad. “In my room?”

“Yeah...sorry, dude. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Who even is that?” Flash asks.

Fuck fuck fuck! Peter thinks as loud as he can, so it drowns out all his other thoughts in a sea of panic and adrenaline.

“I don't know.”

“Is he one of my classmates?”

“I don't know, Flash. I'm not gonna out someone, even if I did.”

“No, no, not that, I’ve got stuff in there I don't necessarily want some people to see.”

“What, your Beyonce poster?”

“Did he see that?”

“...Uh, yeah.”

“Fuck.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay, man,” Flash says quickly. 

Peter just wants to be gone. He just wants to be back next to that serene pond, filled with watercolour and blue and green and water lilies floating like all his dreams do, but no. Reality slams into him. That pool is far, far away. It might not even be real.

There’s a few more seconds of muffled convo, but Peter is too busy panicking. He creeps over to the window, hoping -- dreaming -- for a fire escape since he doesn't have his web-shooters on him.

Then the door opens, Stranger comes back inside. He sighs dramatically when he sees Peter with his shirt back on.

“What are you doing?”

“Uhh,” Peter glances from him to the window and back again. “Nothing?”

He shrugs.“Whatever. I would've done the same when I was in the closet.”

“Oh, fuck,” Peter sighs, and it all comes crashing down on him. He’s sober and tired and aching inside, his mind still frazzled and sparking electricity from that near-miss. “I can’t.”

"Can't what?"

"I’m — I don't know what I’m doing. I'm not gay."

He laughs, and Stranger’s laugh is perhaps the most mocking thing Peter’s ever heard, even if it’s not meant to be. "Aren't you?" His cheeks flame red.

"No," Peter shakes his head and backs away. "I swear, I'm not."

Stranger seems to see it in his eyes, and he nods. "I get it. I was like you too, once. But it was a gas station bathroom. And he was like 40 years old and a meth head. So."

"I'm not like you. I’m straight. I'm straight."

He raises his eyebrows. "Don't worry about it, kid," he says, even though they're the same age.

Peter’s gotta get out of here. “I’ll — I’ll go. I’m going.”

“See you,” he calls coolly, like he knows he will come back, like he’s got to.

Peter doesn't say anything. He just flees.

He's clattering down the stairs, trying to make sure his lips aren’t red and his hair isn't mussed, although he knows it is, he knows he looks guilty, like he's fleeing from the scene of a crime.

He pauses to try and find his friends, to gain his bearings, like a sailor far out at sea. The party has grown, swelled like a parasite with its greedy little mouth sucking and sucking, clamping and gulping. He looks around for his night sky but instead of finding the moon or star-studded constellations, he just finds Flash, staring at him, mouth open like a guppy. Peter stares back, and doesn't know what to do, what to say. He doesn't know for sure, Peter reminds himself. He doesn't know for sure.

"Peter!" he jumps and then freezes, like a rabbit, as MJ charges up the stairs, with Ned in tow.

"There you are," Ned yells, as they pull through the crowd.

Peter's mind is going at full speed, wondering how they don't know already. Seems so obvious to him. Seems like there’s evidence all over him, the way his shirt is rumpled, the way his hair’s been messed up, his cheeks flaming red, his lips, swollen, his eyes, panicking. He feels like there would be a brand, right across his forehead. PETER PARKER IS — "Guys…" his voice stumbles out from his broken tongue. Act normal. He’s gotta act normal.

"Where'd you go?" Ned asks when they finally get close enough.

"Uh, nowhere. Just — I went to the bathroom."

At that moment, nameless Stranger shoulders past him and down into the crowd. Peter doesn't let his eyes track him.

“Okay,” Ned says, placid.

“Don't just ditch like that, Parker,” MJ says, and knocks his shoulder.

“Yeah. Sorry.” he rubs the back of his neck and sees Stranger, standing over by the drinks. “Can we go? I’m kinda done.”

MJ shrugs. “Okay.

Flash steps into their view, eyes only on Peter. “Parker,” he says, and draws out the word like he doesn't want it to end, like he doesn't know what he’ll say after that.

Peter doesn't know what to say either, so he just stands.

“Flash?” Ned says, “you okay?”

Flash snaps out of it, “yeah! Yeah. Just.” he opens his mouth and closes it again. “I’m fine.”

“Ooohkay,” MJ says, and strides for the elevator.

Ned follows her weakly, but Peter only takes one step before he can’t, before he feels like he’s being pulled back down.

“I— I won't say anything, Parker,” Flash says, and Peter believes him. “I promise,” he adds, and there's something devastatingly lonely in his eyes, at that moment. Peter wonders why his parents are letting him throw such a huge party, where they are, why Flash lyfts to school instead of getting dropped off and why even though he’s thrown this huge party with everybody there, he’s standing by himself, like he has been all night. Maybe Peter understands a little more about him.

He swallows under Peter's gaze, “I know you think I'm a dick — and I am. I'm such a dick, such a dick, Parker, and I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m sorry. I — I hate myself more than you hate me. Really.”

“That’d be easy,” Peter says.

Flash’s face twists. “What?”

“Because I don't hate you. Not really. You are a dick,” and Flash laughs at that. “But I think you’re a good person, inside.”

“You do?”

Peter smiles. “Yeah.”

“Peter!” It’s MJ, and the elevator doors are closing.

“Gotta go,” he says to Flash, and runs. He slides inside just in time.

“What was that?” Ned asks.

Peter swallows. “You know Flash, don't you?”

MJ practically growls. She hates it when he deflects, and she can always tell. To be fair, he's bad at it.

Peter sighs. “I mean, he’s a bully, but people are bullies for reasons.”

Ned says, quietly, “what isn't he talking about?”

Peter swallows. “Nothing.”

“Didn't sound like nothing,” MJ says.

Peter shrugs as the door opens onto that grand lobby. “Well, it was.”

—

Ned and MJ drop the subject relatively quickly, they walk to the subway and Peter’s silent, nearly the whole time, mind whirring.

Is he gay? Bi? Pan? How many more sexualities are there? Jesus Christ. Sometimes he thinks there are too many options. All he knows is he liked kissing Stranger, he did. He would've liked anything they did after that, too.

He thinks about porn. He doesn't think he watches the guys. He doesn't think so. He doesn't know anymore. Reality is blurring and twisting like clay on a wheel.

Something hot is twisting in his gut — shame. Shame is twisting in his gut. He’s ashamed. What would Mr Stark think? What would the Avengers think? Oh God, he’s letting him down. Them all down. 

God, this is all those confusing. Is it just experimentation? How does he know when experimentation is something more? Is there a website for this? He should google. Google knows everything. Literally. Mega-corporations are stealing your digital information. No way to get around it. VPNs won't help you with unaccountable corporations that simply don’t care about people trying to make more money with targeted ads and the sales of customer’s data to other countries. 

\--

They hop onto a nearly empty train, not quite empty enough to be deserted, and settle on seats, MJ and Ned chattering, Peter zoning out next to them.

He's so tired. He could go to sleep right here, on the empty train carriage rattling under New York. He’s done it before. Missed his stop. He’s so tired, everything is glazing and blurring, glazing over, colours smeared. A child with finger paint is playing with his life.

“Peter?”

He snaps to attention. “Yeah?” Nothing seems real. His friends' faces swim in front of his eyes, it’s all a dream, something in his mind tells him.

“You okay?”

Peter smiles. He feels all warm — the good brandy, Christmas type of warm, not the hellish one. “Yeah. I just might be.” He feels like his limbs are coming loose, like his joints are slack, like he could leave an arm on the seat by accident.

—

The three of them split a few minutes later, and no one knows what to say. Peter watches them go, two figures coiled together, heads close. Across the platform, there are two guys laughing, standing too close to be friends. Peter looks a little too long, and one sees him. He murmurs something in a low voice and they step apart. Peter feels sick, but his train is arriving, so he ducks his head and climbs on.

He closes his eyes, promises himself it's just for a minute, but that welcome dark is so very lovely. He feels overexposed after today, he feels grated to his core, over-stimulated. For just a moment, he's a child again, and he thinks closing his eyes makes him invisible to the world.

The doors ding as they open, and he drags his eyes open just to make sure it’s not his stop because he doesn't know how much time he lost.

They go to drift close again, but Peter fights this time. He needs to stay awake. He’s gonna miss his stop and then miss his curfew, and then he’ll be in trouble and bam, no more Spider-Man.

It hasn't cooled down here any less and it’s suffocating. He feels like the whole of New York is lying on his chest. He can’t move. He can’t move. He’ll stay here forever, forever and ever and the morning commuters will come and sit next to him, stand on the busy days (all days are busy days). He’ll turn into stone, and kids will point and laugh and climb on him, and he won't mind. Not really.

He thinks of that pool again, that cool, cold, freshwater and his skin sliding against the water like cool silk. And just letting the buzz and chirps and crickets and song of the birds and animals and insects just crowd his mind, fill up his ears, replace his brain with those symphonies.

He wouldn't have to think for once. Peter is so tired of thinking, so tired of being so alert all of the time. He’d like to let go. To forget all that. Just become the water, become the reeds, become the water lilies and become the fish that swim under them. Conscious thought is so totally overrated.

“Hey,” says the guy next to him, the one that just got on last stop.

Peter turns. “Hey.”

“I’m John,” the Stranger offers, putting his hand out for him to shake.

“Peter,” he takes it. His palm is smooth, but there are calluses on his fingers.

Stranger John smiles at him. Peter smiles back. He’s getting that feeling in his stomach again. 

  
  



End file.
